


Compliment Box

by venus woman and giant saurian (grayglube)



Category: Lucifer (TV)
Genre: Canon Divergence, Episode: s04e05 Expire Erect, F/M, The one where he takes her home after she gets high, no past marclo
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-05
Updated: 2020-01-05
Packaged: 2021-02-27 12:01:58
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,295
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22066696
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/grayglube/pseuds/venus%20woman%20and%20giant%20saurian
Summary: He’s dark and light all at once, backlit by the perimeter lights, his face a mask like always again. She wonders what’s under it.
Relationships: Ella Lopez/Marcus Pierce
Comments: 11
Kudos: 38





	Compliment Box

**Author's Note:**

> where is the lopez/pierce content my dudes? oh well, here's some.

The night spins around her like food coloring in water, kaleidoscopic and dizzying as a voice from on high says: “Good work tonight, Lopez,” and all she wants to do is fuck.

When she looks back, arching so far back it takes a hand on her middle spine to stop her from toppling back on her heels, he’s dark and light all at once, backlit by the perimeter lights, his face a mask like always again.

She wonders what’s under it.

She hums low in her throat, glassy eyes rolling, closing, opening wide on the Lieutenant, very stern and wearing a shirt she’s sure is a size too small.

“Thirsty work,” she answers, laughing on her heavy breath at nothing, staring at the water bottle she’s holding until it erupts over her waving hand in her too firm grasp on everything except the earth that's spinning.

His hand slips down a few spare centimeters with a warmth that makes her hyperaware.

She minces a tap dance until she trips over her own feet as he pulls her away, high heels leaving the ground as he turns her from the crowd and tilts her face up between his hands, eyeing her blasted stare and frowns.

“Hey,” she sputters, swaying into him, stepping on his boots and pressing her breasts onto his chest, an accident, but a happy one, then not an accident as she rubs up closer for just a moment.

“You’re high,” he observes, easily, not condemnatory, not seeming particularly concerned about the milling crowd around them, just a fact.

“It’s rude to refuse the party favors,” she counters, just as easily.

“That’s one way to look at it. Come on, Lopez.”

And she’s taken away, just barely aware enough to avoid providing her own commentary on the way to his car.

* * *

She’s drunk and high and he’s envious.

She staggers and he steadies her because he’s always steady, at least in this decade.

It’s hard to envision her as something vulgar in the day to day but now, in the glow of neon, with bass so heavy the street throbs, she’s something rude, something more like the rest of them. Her pressed up breasts are warm, gleam with a dusting of glitter, clean in only one swatch, cleared by someone’s tongue chasing salt and body shot lime.

He imagines her tangled together with the bodies of others, figures her for some unsurprising temptress and finds he’s not far off from the truth.

* * *

She stares up at the bright starred sky through the moonroof, floating up into the sky until the streetlights blind her and she shakes her head to blink them away.

She watches him, a human shadow, some stolid, solid thing beside her.

“So, big,” she breathes.

His eyes glance sideways towards her.

“Your arms are _massive_. And your jaw.” Her slack fingers roam across his cheek, fall down limply onto his clavicle like a pale spider before she comes away from him in one big motion, smacking the back of her hand against the passenger side window. “Ouch,” she whines.

“Put your seatbelt on,” he tells her.

“Safety first,” she agrees, struggling to reach it, aiming to please but sliding down too low in her seat to accommodate the request until he reaches across her to buckle her in himself.

And again it’s easy to rub up on an arm so big.

“Where are we going?” he asks while she strokes over his hand on the gear shift with her nails.

“You’re the boss, Marc-us,” she manages before breaking down into giggles.

“Sorry,” he says, “I haven’t gotten around to memorizing every employee’s address,” he deadpans.

“Lies,” she murmurs, stroking the underside of his wrist. He doesn’t try shake her off, doesn't look bothered by it, doesn't look like he even feels it.

And she wants him to, she realizes then

“Maybe.”

She wishes he felt something.

“Hey,” she starts, looking out at the passing night outside of the car, trying to round back in on her most central thoughts.”

“What is it, Lopez?”

“Don’t take me there,” she answers, dully, like she’s almost clearheaded. It’s not quite clarity, simply a plateau that allows her to say it.

“Where else do you want to go?”

“Your place.”

“That’s not a good idea,” he demurs.

But her thighs open like it is and his eyes sketch over, away from the road and towards her, just once before they sweep back up to where they belong.

He doesn’t even swallow hard. A void sits beside her. Still, she tries. Bolder maybe, looking to be pleased as much as she's naturally inclined to be a pleaser.

“ I diffused a bomb, I’m horny, and I want to go to your place because I deserve it, you can think of it as, oh, you owe me and we’d be great at sex stuff together.”

“Okay, Lopez,” he says, smiling so slightly she almost misses it. “Have it your way."

She’s too high to think that it’s too easy.

And sooner than she’s expected in her half-measured high there’s the house on high, so L.A., so open, not a curtain anywhere to keep the light or dark at bay.

* * *

He hasn’t had a new lover since the city before last, since an identity ago, a trip across the country, and a handful of names.

He hasn’t fucked someone as Marcus Pierce yet, he hadn’t figured it to be her but he imagines her on his lap and her bare thighs in his hands even before they are.

Has imagined them long before, if he's honest though he's categorically a liar by the book.

* * *

He’s inside before her, not helping with her seatbelt or the door, leaving her to her own choices, only reaching out again to steady her as she stumbles over an area rug inside the doorway, letting her move him through the room with two hands flat on his impossibly broad chest, her arms outstretched and head hung low, playing Sisyphus pushing a rock she wouldn’t mind having roll back onto her.

Over and over again.

And inside then, rocks, everywhere, a subject for another day, a time for when she’s not so hot, so focused on such a singular goal, not so focused on the rock hard rock she wants to break against.

He’s smiling, just a little, there and then gone, as he lets her muscle him back towards a chair that looks too small to fit him.

“What now, Lopez?” He asks, barely needing to lift his head to stare up at her. She stands over one jeaned thigh, letting her own naked ones move back and forth over it.

“Wow, these are rough. Take them off,” she answers, bending to run her palms flat over the front of his thighs, her face close enough to his to count his eyelashes.

“…”

“Come on,” she commands even as she sits and prevents him from carrying out her directions.

He gazes up, amused, chin and cheek cradled in his palm until she rocks forward, one heel catching on the chair’s lower rung, her knee hitching up against his ribs easily, snug under his arm. His hand drops to let the heat of his fingertips move over her skin and her touched starved pussy nearly quivers.

It’s been awhile since she’s been intimate with something that doesn’t run on batteries.

His eyes drop low to where her dress struggles to bridge her thighs despite the lack of give, despite the near complete view of her _nice_ panties, free of cartoon pandas, witticisms, or the wrong day of the week only because of careful planning.

Her thigh fits well in his palm, her hip beneath her dress fits better and he does it so easily she doesn’t notice it moving before it’s there.

“You waiting for permission?” She asks, to be a smartass, to see what he does and he only smirks, waiting until she relieves him of needing to decide.

The taste of his mouth makes her less thirsty, she decides, the slick trace of his tongue over her soft palate, the shape of his teeth is heady, messy, not as controlled as she’s expected.

“Your tongue is _so_ big.”

And it is suffocating inside her mouth upon further investigation, but, she decides, she doesn’t really need to breath. She pulls back, mouthing at his jaw. “You taste like wild turkey and cigarettes,” she confides, preening like a cat.

“You taste like cocaine,” he counters, sucking on his own teeth. “Who would have thought,” she hears him begin to say, amused, with what she can’t tell, won’t begin to guess at because opening his jeans seems much more important than deciphering the mind of one more hard to figure out dude in her life.

* * *

His tongue goes momentarily numb.

Yayo tingle emptying his mind as she kisses the corner of his mouth.

He wants to slip inside her, bare her breasts by pulling down the front of her dress with his teeth, a spare thought to wait out the time it takes her to find her rhythm.

He tosses back his head, lets it stretch his throat vulnerable so he can shudder when her teeth and tongue touch on his carotid.

* * *

He lifts enough to let her get his jeans to his knees, the dark hair on his thigh soft, the muscle there just as solid as the rest of him and she grinds down wholly while he bounces her there, letting his head hang back for a moment. He does swallow then, voice like gravel as he bounces her again.

“God, you’re wet.”

She smiles wide.

He guides her between his hands, over him, in a purposeless rhythm she can’t come from, it frustrates her to the point of rising and falling back down in front of him, barely avoiding catching a heel on his jeans, high and inordinately uncouth, sloppy even, disheveled for sure, lying on his kitchen floor.

“Might as well just do it myself,” she goads, not meaning to goad, just _meaning_ it, the tightness in her cunt a knot almost undone if she keeps working at it for a few moments more.

The chair clatters and hands pull hers away from between her legs, yank on her underwear until they’re nothing but elastic and soft lace edging, until she spread open wide with knees around his shoulders and her arms akimbo over her head, hot, blunt tongue thick inside of her.

“ _Shut up_ ,” she says pressing the back of her head against the floor.

Pierce laughs between her legs.

“I was just going to hump your thigh for a little,” she breathes. “But, this is much better.”

And if she can’t really feel the edge of his teeth on her nipples because of the coke Eve’s snorted off of them then that’s okay, in the morning her breasts will be pink from beard burn anyway.

“ _Jesus_ ,” she hisses.

He touches a fingertip to where her cross would have been before, stares down at her lewd and spread out under him, reaching low to open her knees like the world’s cockiest gynecologist. It’s insufferable, she loves it, even more when he pulls her to the edge of the imaginary table, right onto his lap.

“Not even close,” he says before pulling his shirt up over his head with one hand.

The tangle of her hair is trapped under his palms pressed flat to the floor in his distraction and she’s searched up for his mouth with her own and found it, swallowing the taste of her sex inside of it.

She slides up the floor, shoulders and spine slicker than the inside of her sticky thighs with each insistent push of his cock like he's trying to find something inside of her.

To his credit he doesn’t stutter on the rhythm as her heels run up along the back of his thighs and he tolerates them for just a moment before reaching to push her feet free of them. She lets her toes knead up and down his legs instead.

* * *

The clutch of her cunt is dizzying.

Sweet and slick.

* * *

She’s still high, can tell from the way she rubs over his body like clay she’s meant to form into some beginner’s pottery class shape, lingering on his arms and ass, heels kneading the tight diamond of muscle of his lower back, fingers rubbing at his scalp and behind his ears like he’s some large variety of house cat.

When he comes inside of her it’s because she barely gives him the room to draw back. He mutters against her throat and she speaks in tongues.

“Should have asked,” he grumbles. “Sorry.”

“Nah, feels good. Safe days,” she supplies and she rubs up for emphasis, his come warm and slick between them.

“That was filthy. We are really gross right now. So gross,” she adds, happy, high.

“Good.”

“But Compliment Box for sure.”

“I feel pretty good right now, to be honest,” he admits, on his back, lying on the sticky floor beside her.

“‘Marcus Pierce gives great head,’” she says, writing in the space above her with an imaginary pen.

“Good to know I have one redeeming quality.”

“I’m sure I could discover some more if you give me a few minutes,” she pants, slapping a sweaty hand against his damp chest.

He wants to catch it in his own hand but doesn’t. “Good work tonight, Lopez,” he offers instead.

She blows a raspberry. “Worst segue ever,” but still, she laughs. 

* * *

His eyes linger on the marks she’s made on him, her tongue some balm on deeper wounds as she traces them, still high, still hungry.

He exhales, rolling over her, not ready to be outdone by her just yet.


End file.
